


Conflagration

by mind_the_thorns



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Burn Wounds, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of Dorian's douchebag father, somewhat graphic wound descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_the_thorns/pseuds/mind_the_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Friendly fire" really doesn't mean what Cole thinks it means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cole

**Author's Note:**

> This was a kink meme fill that I did back in the summer (find it here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53815533), based on this party banter dialogue Dorian has with Cole:
> 
> Dorian: Cole, you should be careful dancing around with those daggers when I'm throwing fire.   
> Cole: It won't hurt me. It's friendly fire.  
> Dorian: That doesn't always mean what you think it means. 
> 
> I had no plans of posting it here since I sort of left it hanging on the kmeme, but in retrospect I guess it's more or less finished. I could be persuaded to post a coda one day. Maybe. Stay tuned!
> 
> Despite the lighthearted summary, it's not a very pleasant story, so beware of the dark icky stuff that comes with accidental comrade injury, Cassandra being Cassandra-y about magic, and Dorian thinking about his gross dad.

Dorian’s father taught him his first spell. Cole watches him relive the memory over and over--a hopeful spark between cupped hands, warm fingers curled around his, coaxing the fire to life, pride that he barely understood and yet deeply cherished welling in his breast as the man with his eyes watched the blaze grow. “ _Well done, my boy! Well done._ ”

Cole can see it all very clearly--as clearly as five-year-old Dorian remembers it--but isn’t sure  _why_. It used to be a happy memory--the first time his father smiled at him,  _really_  smiled, something more than base affection, something fierce and forever--but now it causes him pain. Nothing has changed about the memory itself, and yet each time Dorian remembers it, there’s an echo of hurt so deep it cuts like a knife through all the soft places, ripping and tearing and destroying what was once held sacred. Cole can’t feel as much as he used too, not since he let Varric help him with the Templar, but not even his own symphony of hurts--fresh and sharp as they are--can block it out, this low, bright, burning pain ( _So proud, there’s tears in his eyes. Well done, my boy! ...Get out. You’re no son of mine.)_.

It sits like an ember in Dorian’s thoughts, lashing out at anyone who comes close, even the Inquisitor. Adaar sings a counterpoint of grief and frustration ( _Should have made them reconcile, shouldn’t have pulled him away, pride isn’t worth this. Kadan, I’m sorry, this is killing you)_. Cole can’t help him without helping Dorian, though, so he listens and tries to understand. Sorrow and betrayal as he recalls the softness of his father’s hands around his. Anger and outrage at the words on the page, the spell that would have changed them both.

“You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are.  _Why_ would you do that?” His efforts are clumsy and careless, blowing on the embers, making them glow white hot. Dorian can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears, each thumping beat a rhythm to a chant for change he can’t unhear, and now Cole can’t make him forget.

~~~

He’s still singing brightly with pain when they find the Venatori camp in the Hissing Wastes. It’s been days since the Inquisitor brought him to the tavern in Redcliffe (Cole is getting better at counting by days now that he has begun to sleep--time was always so hard to tell before night and day were separate)--days, and Dorian is more like a torch than an ember now, blazing just under the surface, a thin veneer of calm masking the the wrath and ruin beneath. Hunting the Venatori was supposed to have helped, was meant to be a distraction, an outlet for inferno, but their mages only add fuel to fire with each drop of blood soaked up by the sand, turning their magic red and raw and hot.

Cole prowls the battleground, slipping silently over the dunes and unseen in the shadows. He can’t make people forget him now, but he can still be unseen if he wishes. It’s not like a spirit would do it--no black smoke billowing around him unless he uses one of the little flasks that Varric gives him--but the desert is dark and full of darker places to hide--a shrub there, a rock here--and the noisy, chaotic pitch of battle is perfect for an ambush if he’s careful.

He takes down the archers first. Their armor is thinner so there is little resistance when he lunges from the shadows and sinks his blades down and pushes  _forward_ , through the ribs with a sharp  _crack_  and into their lungs. He can’t help but feel their deaths--a bright flash like the sparklers Josephine favors, pain mixed with surprise--but they are gone before it can slow him down.

Around him, the battle is winding down. Cassandra circles a man whose shield is larger than his body, and still she is winning, wearing him down inch by inch. Adaar trades blows with an armored soldier. He’s big for a human, but no match for Adaar; the warhammer comes down, metal glinting in the moonlight like a lightning strike, and the soldier does not rise again.

A bright flash of magic draws his attention to Dorian, engaged in a furious magical contest with the one remaining Venatori spellcaster. Seconds pass and it becomes clear that it is not a contest at all. Dorian’s fire blasts are wild and unrefined, huge gouts of flame buffering and battering against the hapless Venatori’s defenses. The spellcaster tries to summon power from the weeping gash on his arm; Dorian snarls and pushes harder, pouring an extra measure of strength into the onslaught. Cole hears a quick blast of his thoughts-- _blood magic is for the weak, I am not weak, I am NOT like him, how could he_ _ **do that to me**_ _\--_ and quails with fear for his friend. This is not the Dorian he knows, whose spells call bits of the Fade through to this side in an elegant, controlled dance. This is all-consuming and reckless, completely without measure or grace or restraint.

Adaar calls out a warning, but Dorian does not hear it. Nor does he see the rogue stealing up behind him, knives flashing in the dark.

Cole is there without thought, intercepting, driving daggers into the man’s gut as he had intended to do to Dorian, dropping him to the ground before he can so much as cry out in pain. Adaar cries out again--Cole looks up, sees the stricken look on his face and thinks fleetingly that there must be another rogue waiting to strike, but the warning is not for Dorian.

It’s for him.

Once, Dorian had cautioned him to be careful around him while he was casting. Cole had assured him that he couldn’t be hurt by fire-- _friendly fire_ , he’d said, not realizing he’d made a joke until Varric mistakenly congratulated him for it later. It was meant as a compliment, a vote of confidence in Dorian’s ability to cast with such precision, such focus. When Dorian whirls around to face him, hand outstretched and wreathed in white hot flame, he does not see focus. He sees only blind rage and glimpses of a man pushed to the brink.

The fire hits him like a physical blow, pushing him back, flinging him off his feet. His arms raise instinctively, hands flying up to protect his face, but he doesn’t know how much good it does because suddenly everything is  _burning burning burning_  and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. All pain is relatively new to him but this...this feels like nothing he has ever felt before. He smells smoke and the acrid stench of smoldering fabric and something that reminds him of the kitchens at Skyhold. It’s his own skin burning, he realizes, horrified and fascinated in turns, and then a blackness settles over him, dark and deep. Cassandra’s and Adaar’s frantic voices echo in his ears from somewhere far away, but he can’t make out the words.

Dorian’s silence, however, is deafening.


	2. Cassandra

When magic goes out of control, it has a taste--like copper coins on the back of the tongue, sharp and somehow sour. Between this and the Inquisitor’s anguished cry, it’s just enough warning for Cassandra to act. Nullifying power surges through her instinctively, searching out the wild magic and dampening it, pushing it back to the Fade. Peripherally she sees Dorian stumble back, physically knocked off his feet by the Smite, but her attention is on Cole. She bites off a curse--she’s either getting rusty, or Dorian is far more powerful than she has ever given him credit for, because Cole’s clothes are still smoldering by the time she reaches his side. She bats at the lingering flames that crawl across his arms and chest, feeling the heat even through the thick leather of her gloves.

Cole is surprisingly quiet. She glances up--his eyes are only half open, whites flashing underneath fluttering lids. Unconscious, then, or close to it. Definitely in shock. Better this way, she thinks darkly, knowing from experience that burn wounds are intensely painful things.

Behind her, the Inquisitor frets and hovers like a wounded butterfly--a strange analogy for a man of his size but fitting nonetheless. He’s obviously torn between his concern for Cole and his need to comfort Dorian--Dorian, who is still kneeling in the sand, watching them with eyes as blank as Cole’s.

“Cassandra, is he…?”

“He lives.”

She can practically feel Adaar’s relief, the sag in his shoulders as he banishes thoughts of burying another friend. He retreats slightly--she can hear him muttering to Dorian in soft, reassuring words and blocks out the sound of Dorian’s ragged voice, thick with emotion.

It’s foolish, but she can’t help but feel something like betrayal that Dorian has allowed this to happen, has  _caused_  this to happen. For many years, she’d maintained that mages were dangerous, carried the warning around in the back of her head like a burr stuck to her boots, because mages were unpredictable and could take away everything you love with a snap of their fingers. But Antony has been dead for many years now, and after a while it had become exhausting to assume that every mage was a breakdown away from murder and destruction, especially after Adaar had recruited hundreds of them after the Redcliffe debacle.

She’d  _trusted_  Dorian not to let his untoward reputation as both a mage and a Tevinter prove her old suspicions right. She’d let her guard down.

Now Cole is paying for it.

Cassandra focuses all her attention on the wounded boy, assessing the damage with a critical eye. Dorian’s flames had burned hot and fast, making short work of Cole’s jacket and undershirt, incinerating the fabric and scorching the skin underneath. The smell brings up bile and half repressed memories of bodies charred by dragon fire, skin turned white and hard from the flames, like patches of scaly armor that withered and collapsed into weeping caverns of ruined flesh.

The screaming echoes in her ears as she first checks to make sure he is breathing without complication. Sometimes, if the fire is hot enough, it can literally burn the air right out of a person’s lungs. In the worst enough cases, it can burn a person on the inside as well as out. Thankfully, she can detect no signs of respiratory distress; Cole’s face and neck are miraculously untouched. In fact, most of the damage is minimal--the skin of Cole’s chest is pink and shiny, with only a few patches of of raw skin near his collarbone, creeping across the tops of his shoulders, but otherwise it is only a superficial burn--painful, certainly, but no more so than a severe sunburn. His forearms and hands are another matter, though, most likely from using them as a shield to protect his face from the flames. The skin is mottled and weeping already, blisters forming in great splotches of pale white and yellow, rimmed with angry red.

They will need to be vigilant, she knows, in order to stave off infection, but all things considered this could have been much, much worse. She says as much to Adaar as she digs through their gear for clean bandages. Dorian flinches, sucking in a sharp breath at the steel in her voice, the thinly veiled accusation.

“This was an accident, Cassandra,” Adaar reminds her in a cautioning tone. Not a warning, but close.

“It always is,” she says, gently winding the bandages around Cole’s wrists and forearms. There is enough heat in her voice this time that neither man replies.


	3. Dorian

Contrary to what Cassandra probably assumes, up until this very moment, the only person Dorian has ever unwittingly hurt with his magic is himself. On more than one occasion, to be embarrassingly precise. Had he not been born to noble house Pavus, who concern themselves with appearances above all else, he would have been possessed of several scars by now, but of course abnormalities-- _imperfections--_ like that were unacceptable in Tevinter, even in the name of magical experimentation. There had been no shortage of world-class Spirit Healers on hand to heal little mageling Dorian’s magical mishaps. Yet another way his father made it quite clear from very early on that his body was never going to be good enough,  _perfect_  enough, without magical intervention.

Nevertheless, outside of those early days of spells literally blowing up in his face, he can safely claim that only those deluded fools interested in taking over the world have felt the wrath of his magic.

Until now.

Dorian relives the moment every time he closes his eyes--everything aflame, his blood pumping hot and loud in his ears, the magic screaming through him, responding to the force of his anger in a way that he knows should terrify him, not invigorate him--

\--Cole’s wide blue eyes full of fear, his choked off scream as the explosion flings him away like a rag doll, flames dancing up his arms--

Dorian shudders, bile rising in his throat. If Cassandra hadn’t reacted the way she had, he has no doubt in his mind that Cole would be dead. It had been his intent, after all. To kill the presumed enemy rogue sneaking up behind him. He’d just assumed--hadn’t even thought beyond the urge to make them pay--

Their hurried trek back to the nearest Inquisition camp is passed in heavy silence, broken only by Senit’s infrequent inquiries into the state of his health--infrequent because he’s carrying Cole’s lanky, unresponsive form in his massive arms, and most of his focus is spent on trying to half-run, half walk through the shifting dunes. Dorian gives him a few noncommittal grunts in reply before Senit reminds him--for the eighth time--that this had been an accident. As if, somehow, that made it all right. Dorian is a grown man, an experience mage, he should  _know better_ \--

It may have been an accident, but it’s still his fault.

Cassandra evidently agrees. She snarls at him when he tries to follow Senit into the field tent the Inquisition scouts had set up as a makeshift infirmary, stopping him with a palm against his chest that quivers with repressed anger.

“Wait outside,” she growls, so vehemently that several scouts wisely scuttle away to find something better to do than watch the drama unfold. Dorian tries not to quail under her gaze, but it’s impossible to defend himself against anger that is not entirely misplaced.

“I only meant--” he starts, voice cracking. “Can’t I help?”

Her nostrils flare, lips quivering into a disgusted scowl. “You’ve done enough.”

Honestly, he’d have preferred it if she shouted at him. The quiet rage is cutting, a new twist to the knife. He opens his mouth to protest, to chastise her, to beg her to see reason, to explain himself--but stops. Cassandra doesn’t know why he lost control out there, and it’s likely that she wouldn’t care to, even if he felt like sharing. All that matters is that it  _did_ happen, and it would be unworthy of him to make this all about him when the casualty of his failings lies suffering in a tent in the middle of nowhere. He closes his mouth around a sigh and takes a step back.

One brave soul ventures into Cassandra’s line of sight, holding out a small chest as a peace offering.

“Lady Seeker? Our emergency medical supplies, as you requested. It’s not much but you’re welcome to it.”

She flips open the lid and sweeps dark eyes across the contents appraisingly. “I suppose Prophet’s Laurel would be too much to hope for out here?”

The scout shrugs helplessly. “Not a lot of green things this far into the wastes, my lady. I did see some Amrita Vein growing wild not too far off--I can fetch some, if you like.”

Cassandra grunts in approval, and the scout rushes off to do her bidding. Box under one arm, she turns to duck under the tent flap.

“Please, Cassandra,” says Dorian, but runs out of words immediately after the plea leaves his lips. He hopes it’s enough, hopes she knows how truly  _sorry_ he is, how much he wants to put this to rights, how much he hates himself for causing this. But he can’t sit out here twiddling his thumbs while they attempt to fix his mistake, he just can’t.

She sighs heavily, rough edged and weary, and her shoulders sag just ever so slightly. “Come, then.”


	4. Cole

Someone is in pain.

Bright, biting,  _searing_ pain. Skin burning, stretched thin and held tight, fresh, raw tissue as delicate as butterfly wings, cracking with every shallow breath. It feels wrong--too real, too  _sharp_ , pushing out everything else, filling him up until it’s the only thing left. There’s a sound from far away, a whimper, wrecked and wretched, like the fennec with it’s foot caught too long in the trap. Varric’d had to put it down.  _Too far gone to save, Kid._ He used to do that, back before he’d known-- ended pain with the gleaming edge of a knife. Not to set free, but to feel  _real_. Death to make him feel alive. He’s not like that anymore, but the whimper comes again and he wonders, reaching for a knife that isn’t where it should be, if maybe this pain is too far gone, too.

“Shhh,” a voice soothes, shushes. “I know this hurts, but it must be done.”

Something wet sweeps over the places that burn the brightest, bringing new pain--rough, scraping, stinging pain. The whimper becomes a whine.

“Almost finished. Be still, Cole.”

It takes him a moment, but the sound of his name ties it all together. He isn’t hearing pain, he’s  _feeling_ it, feeling it because it  _belongs_ to him, his body. The soft, pitiful sounds come from his own mouth. He would laugh at himself for the blunder but he can’t find the air. The scraping sensation comes again--coarse cloth against  _his_ arm--and he groans, feeling it bubbling out of his throat like a bruise.

“There. All done.” That is Cassandra’s voice. He can hear flashes of her now, like faint whispers at the bottom of a howling chasm-- _too hot, Maker, he’s burning up, not much more I can do, he needs a healer_ \--

She’s frightened for him. A flicker of dread uncurls in his stomach, cold against the ever-present blaze that surrounds him. Should he be frightened? Is he dying?  _Can_  he die? Where will he go?

Falling, flightless, fading into the Fade.

Forgotten.

He opens his eyes. He can’t remember closing them, but he must have been in darkness for a while, because everything is blurry and indistinct. Where is he? What happened? Terror settles around him like a blanket.

A vaguely human shape looms above him. It has dark hair and Cassandra’s voice. “Cole? Are you awake?”

“ _Awake, no, not now--Maker, let him rest, too cruel to make him feel this._ ” He blinks, dislodging tears that roll sideways down his face, dripping unpleasantly into his ears. His voice sounds thin, hollow, harrowed. Her words come to him much clearer than anything in his own head right now, except-- “It  _hurts_.”

“I know,” she says, and he can see--feel-- _hear_  that she does, a memory that tastes like ash and sings with pain like an unhealed wound. It’s an old hurt, but a loud one.

She presses something bitter against his lips--a sprig of elfroot. “Chew on this. It will dull the pain.” He accepts it without complaint and she nods in approval. “The Inquisitor is making a salve for the burns. It should help, too.”

Burns. Fire.  _Dorian._ The memories are sharp now, suddenly filling the space in his head where the gaps had been. He tries to sit up and cries out as the movement pulls at his chest, a tight, blistering pain that the elfroot can’t suppress. Cassandra rushes to hold him steady but he has already subsided, his focus drawn to the ruined mess of his arms. They are raw, wrong, weeping, welted--the sight makes his stomach curl into sick, twisted knots.

“Dorian did this.” He doesn’t intend for it to sound like a question, but it comes out small and hesitant, as if hoping she will deny it.

Cassandra’s gaze darkens, but her hands are gentle as she smooths the sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “Yes. He claims it was an  _accident._ ”

“It was,” he says, tongue suddenly clumsy in his mouth. The elfroot is sharp and vinegary against the inside of his cheek, but it  _is_ helping. All his limbs feel heavy and cumbersome, suffused with a soothing numbness. “You know it was, but you’re angry.  _Shouldn’t have been so lenient, it is always the way with them, must always be vigilant, I_ trusted  _him_. You shouldn’t be angry. He didn’t mean it.”

“Be easy, Cole,” she says, draping a cool cloth across his burning skin, shadowing his eyes in darkness. “I am mostly angry at myself. Dorian may have done this, but I allowed it to happen. If I had paid more attention--”

“It wasn’t your fault. He didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want  _anyone_ to know. I tried to help but I just made it worse.”

Her voice is a frown. “Made what worse?”

Words flow through, filling him up and spilling over. It’s hard to keep them back when his thoughts won’t stay in one place. “He tried to melt a snowflake because he liked waterfalls.  _Never going to be good enough, never going to be the son he wants and he can’t change me, he_ _ **can’t he can’t he can’t**_ \--”

“Cole. That’s enough.”

It’s not Cassandra’s voice. It's sharp, but sad, and Cole feels Cassandra tense up beside him.

"What do you want, Dorian?"


	5. Cassandra

“What do you want, Dorian?” Cassandra means for it to be hostile, but it sounds flat and tired even to her own ears. She  _is_  angry--Cole isn’t wrong--but anger needs fuel to flare, and she has barely slept more than a handful of hours in the past three days.

Perhaps sensing this, Dorian edges further into the tent.

“I can only spend so many hours washing bandages and digging around in the sand for elfroot.” It’s his usual snark without the attitude to support it, so Cassandra doesn’t bristle at the subtle implication that she’s been sending him to perform menial tasks as a way to keep him busy--and out of her sight. It’s true, after all.

He  _has_ been useful, she’ll give him that. True to his word, he offers her a pile of freshly laundered bandages, as well as a shallow bowl full of gray-green paste that smells like boiled cabbage with an undercurrent of something earthy and fragrant--a shining example of Adaar’s natural (and somewhat surprising) talent for herbalism. She takes both without a word, hoping Dorian will leave.

As if to spite her, he takes a seat at her side on one of the low-slung cots, although he doesn’t look at her, dark eyes purposefully avoiding her glare. He gives Cole a weak smile, his moustache twitching with the effort. If she expects him to break down and start tearfully apologizing to the boy, she is disappointed.

Instead, he gently pats Cole on the knee and says, “It’s good to see you awake, Cole. You gave us all quite a scare there for a bit.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dorian visibly cringes. “You don’t… This wasn’t your fault.”

Cassandra bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying what isn’t being said, what Dorian isn’t willing to say: that none of this would be happening if not for him. Her exhaustion makes her waspish. Dry, bleary eyes and a pounding headache stoke a temper she has only recently learned to curb. Being angry is satisfying, in its way, but it’s also terribly draining. All the more draining when her fiercest wrath is reserved for herself, for her grievous lapse in focus and prudence that had allowed this to happen.

She distracts herself with the routine of dressing Cole’s burns, a familiar ritual these days--coat the bandage in the poultice, wrap the worst of the burns, repeat. Coat, wrap, repeat. She’s as gentle as she can be, but her ministrations occasionally draw out a gasp or a wince from Cole. Although it tugs on her heart to hear him suffer so, she prefers it over the last few times she’s done this, prefers the sounds of pain over frightening silence and doll-like stillness. There had been times when she’d been sure...well, she would honestly prefer not to think about it. Dorian is right--the last few days have been truly harrowing.

They are far from the other side of this, though. Cole’s awakening is a good sign, but his fever is still alarmingly high, the infection raging across his ravaged arms only barely kept in check by their ever dwindling supply of healing herbs. If the fever hasn’t broken by tomorrow morning, she and Adaar will need to make plans. Waiting the requisite fortnight for a healer to arrive from Skyhold is out of the question--they will have to either send for help from Val Firmin or chance moving Cole to a halfway point between here and there. And that is assuming that Val Firmin even has a decent healer among its citizens.

Deep in thought, she finishes the first arm and begins to move on to the other when Dorian lightly clears his throat. She’s almost forgotten he’s there, and the seemingly frivolous gesture makes anger roil inside her gut, but it does give her pause. Cole has gone bone white save for the unhealthy flush of red across his cheeks, and his breathing is quick and labored. Pain is etched very clearly on every line of his face.

“Take a moment to catch your breath, Cole,” she says, grudgingly giving Dorian the smallest of nods in recognition for what she had failed to notice, so caught up in her thoughts. She stands and mimics his earlier actions, patting Cole on the knee. “The poultice will sting at first but it should start to dull the pain in a moment. I’m going to get you some water and more elfroot.”

The relentless sun beats down on her like a fist as soon as she steps outside. It’s hot as ever in the Wastes, but a slight breeze is blowing, and compared to the stifling atmosphere of the tent, it’s almost a relief. Unquiet conversation floats through the gap in the canvas as she fills her waterskin with fresh water from the camp’s makeshift reservoir.

“You should tell her. She doesn’t understand.”

A mirthless laugh. “I’m not sure that will help, Cole.”

“I am.”

“Later, perhaps. Let’s get you fixed up for now, shall we?”

Cassandra could pretend that she hadn’t overheard, but she doesn’t see the point.

“Tell me what?” she says, ducking under the tent flap with the waterskin and bundle of elfroot in hand.

“Nothing,” Dorian says, busy dipping the underside of a bandage in the salve. His eyes dart up to look at her, then away. Guilty, perhaps? Or ashamed--a subtle difference. “It doesn’t matter.”

When she reaches for the salve, he pulls it away. A sigh escapes through her tightly clenched teeth. “Are we truly going to squabble over this like a pair of unruly children?”

Dorian’s fingers clench around the edge of the bowl, fingertips flushing white. “Believe it or not, I am perfectly capable of binding a wound.”

 _And of creating them,_  she thinks, acidly. But she doesn’t say it. Who among them is not? “Very well. I need to speak with the Inquisitor. If you need anything, call.”

Dorian nods vaguely and does not reply. His hands, she sees, are trembling, but devastatingly gentle as he wraps the bandage around Cole’s skin, self-flagellation in every gentle motion.

“We are all so broken,” says Cole, a hint of fever delirium coloring his words--sad and distant, as if from observing from very far away.

Dorian takes a shuddering breath and Cassandra steps outside, but even the heat of the sands cannot chase away the chill in her bones.


End file.
